


War Eyes

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Series: In fide aeternam [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: -god of war voice- i judge people by fistfighting, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Relationship, at this point im quite sure everyone's accepted the nameless king is the firstborn, but it's gayer than the one where they actually fuck, have fun with some early Age of the Ancients action, it says there's no shipping in the relationship tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 00:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: They never knew if their meeting was by chance or fate, only that, the moment their eyes met, was sealed a glorious destiny.In which War meets his Warrior.





	War Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Added the relationship tags, but this is entirely pre-relationship.

War. The one thing he had been born for and into. Not a day in his life had passed without conflict. He was the embodiment and the avatar. War made flesh. Or so said the tales, and were they not partially true? Or was he simply molded by circumstance? Whichever was, in the end, it remained true only that the battlefield was his throne and domain. He breathed in the ash and dust, the metallic smell of armor and blood. His teeth tingled with the lightning in the air. All around him, war waged on. From the Slave Knights, fearlessly giving their accursed, unending lives, to his own father, the Lord of Sunlight himself. The dragons roared a cacophony, deeper than the clank of steel - deep enough to feel in the bones. He absorbed it all in.

As he ran from a battle to the next, a dragon falling, hurt with a massive arrow, raised a gust of wind near him, so strong that it had him sprawled on his stomach. As soon as he hit the ground, he was rolling, rising to stand on his feet and face the beast that no doubt was about to bear upon him. Yet, when he turned around, he found the dragon busy with someone else entirely. A Silver Knight swatting it with a greatsword, grabbing onto its neck and  _ pulling _ , climbing onto the creature. The dragon struggled, forcefully swinging its head around. There was little indeed that could be seen of the knight from where he stood, but he heard the screech of steel being ripped and the horns connected to the indistinct figure. The metal made a painful sound, much like the crack of bones. He grimaced, imagining the knight would soon find an end to their heroism.

But as if living to prove him wrong, they appeared over the dragon’s head, sword bloody, as it cried out in agony. It thrashed and screeched, desperately trying to topple the knight. But they had the upper hand already, and he could see the dragon had its seconds counted, if only by the pull back, the preparation for a powerful swing. Yet, a swing never came. With one hand, the knight gripped the greatsword’s blade almost at the middle, where cloth was tightly wrapped around it, and with the other, they grabbed a side of the hilt’s guard to thrust the sword into the beast’s skull with a crackle of lightning. The tip pierced the scales as the knight bore their entire weight into it, sword sinking in and silencing the dragon’s final roar. Its unseeing eyes remained fixed ahead, trying to pierce the fog of war. The knight breathed heavy, leaning against their greatsword, blood dripping from their mangled helmet. Victorious. The Firstborn watched as they straightened their back and stood up from their kneeling position on the massive skull. They took off their helmet gingerly, no doubt at least scratching the wounds beneath it. They dropped the helmet as they gripped the hilt of their sword, pulling it out with some effort.

Until that moment, the Heir had not seen their face, only the shock of seemingly smooth, sweaty red hair. But the moment they hefted the sword onto their shoulder, he saw. From the high cheekbones to the square jaw, the wound - bleeding profusely - across a straight nose and freckled cheeks, the soft curve of full lips. And their eyes. An amber almost golden, narrowed just a fraction. Mindful aggression, measured violence. They looked the part of an angel of war, a knight after himself. They saw something, beyond the Prince’s line of sight, and jumped behind the dragon’s head, breaking the trance he was seemingly under, prompting him to turn his focus back to fighting. To himself, he thought of what those eyes could be seeing.

 

In the next two weeks, they returned to Anor Londo. Victory in their march, even with so many fallen. Ahead, the Lord of Sunlight, and his son to his right. Then his generals, followed by the battalions of Silver Knights. And then… the humans. Slave and Ringed Knights, droves of them. The procession crossed the gates, yet once they reached the high strata, the entrance to the  _ true _ Anor Londo, the humans remained behind. They all dispersed slowly, listening to Gwyn’s booming speech, spoken from the Cathedral. Four days were given to recover, from the battle to the grieving, before the Silver Knights were called back to training. The Firstborn watched, following the sound of metal’s shock like it guided his heartbeat. Yet, for once, he was there for more. He looked on, searching for a head of red hair.

Once he found it, he spoke to the supervisor, a senior officer, significantly older than himself. He wanted to, if she would allow, walk among the knights. He had a challenge, if any would take it. The officer smiled at his proposition, shaking her head. “I speak the truth when I say, Your Grace,” she said, “that they shall trip on themselves for a chance to fight thee.” He smiled back, shrugging. He had no doubt he could square off against most of them. Even if he wished to fight the mystery knight above all others, fighting was fighting, and it was his domain.

The officer stepped forth on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, gripping the railing. “Knights!” She shouted, loud enough to be heard by all soldiers. “You are in the presence of a God who wisheth to spar with you. Tell me, then, who shall accept his challenge?”

A wave of commotion swept over the knights. They talked avidly with each other, looking at the balcony and quickly averting their eyes again. Still, the Prince noticed none of that. His eyes were locked onto the red haired knight’s, both holding an unfaltering stare. Their eyes looked like molten gold under the sun of Anor Londo. They exchanged no words, but both knew that the challenge issued had been accepted. It was only a matter of…

“I accept thy challenge, Divinity!” The knight spoke, almost shouting. Their voice was deeper than he expected.

“Dost thou truly, commander?” The officer asked.

“Yes.” His answer was final, delivered with certainty, gaze still burning into the Firstborn’s eyes.

“Then it is decided. Sir, thou shalt be our first contender!”

The knights shuffled around to clear an area under the instructions of their supervisor, leaving a circle of significant size unoccupied. The knight was surprisingly small - lithe and short, coming up to the Prince’s shoulders.

“How dost thou desire we spar, Divinity?” He asked, face impassive.

“A hand-to-hand, no weapons nor shields.” The Heir answered.

“As is thine wish.”

If asked later, he would not know what to answer as to when they started fighting. In one moment, they were standing several feet apart, and in the next they were in each other’s faces. By virtue of size, the Prince had more reach than his opponent, though the knight was significantly more agile. In strength and actual speed, they were evenly matched. Whenever the Heir tried to hit him, the knight would unequivocally dodge instead of blocking the hit, the angle of being hit from above making so the former was easier. They fought in a haze, unaware of time and space as they failed to topple one another. Their eyes permanently locked - and had the knight not the same look he had when atop that dragon? The same unfathomable gaze of war.

Eventually, the Prince landed a hit square on the smaller man’s chest, hard enough to almost break bones. The knight wheezed, lungs drained of air as he stumbled back. The training gear, composed of a thin leather jacket, was nowhere near enough to protect the man from the blow. Assured in his victory on the now doubled over man, the Heir approached slow and sure for the final blow. Yet, when he readied his stance for it, in a flash of red, the knight unfolded, punching him in the nose. The audible crack had both their eyes widening. The pain blossomed quick and blunt, and his attempt to frown only made it worse. He looked at the knight, clutching his own injury with a look of determination and fear in his eyes.

The Prince stood up straight, still holding his broken nose with his right hand. With one deep breath, golden light surrounded him, and the pain seeped away in the healing waves of the miracle. The knight still stared at him, breathing harshly. No doubt his ribs were already starting to bruise.

“I shall claim this a draw, and respectfully request that thou leavest now, Your Grace.” The senior officer spoke from the edge of the circle, walking towards them.

“I shall concur with thy judgement.” The Heir replied, taking bloody fingers away from his face.

The knights around them started whispering in excited tones at realizing his royal status. But his opponent simply stood there, wide eyed, with a hand splayed over his chest. He said nothing, just stared at the Firstborn, the scarring across his nose and cheeks still rosy, despite the healing miracles bestowed by Gwynevere’s maidens upon the soldiers.

“It seemeth as though thou knowest my name already, sir.” The Prince said, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Then allow’st me to know thine.”

The man was quiet for a moment, and for a moment the Heir thought he would not answer at all. “I am Ornstein, Your Grace, of the Silver Knights.”

“Very well. Farewell, and my gratefulness, Captain, for thou wert the one to allow this.” He said, turning to the senior officer before leaving.

He felt Sir Ornstein’s stare on his back until he disappeared from sight.

 

Sparring, as it were, had always been one of the best parts of training for Ornstein. He felt alive, like he did in the battlefield. Like fire burned in his chest. Regardless of the style, hand-to-hand or armed, group or solo, it felt  _ good _ . He did not know if it was because he was good at it, or he was good at it because it felt that way. Perhaps it was a cycle. No matter which, he knew it, in his bones, that he was born for it. And he was proud, yes, of his skill, and he was confident in it. After all, if he couldn't be, how could his battalion? A commander, he believed, must be someone his soldiers can look up to. So he sparred, and did his utmost best, so he could win. He gave his all so that he could serve the cause to which he gave his faith, unfulfilling as it could be at times.

Yet the second the Sun’s Firstborn’s nose cracked beneath his fingers, he dreaded. Because he was but a lowly Silver Knight, who had dared harm, in no small way, the royal Prince. He feared what might happen, what kind of retribution he might receive. Certainly a Lord would not let such a thing go unpunished. Ornstein’s battalion tried to convince him otherwise, but they didn't even believe themselves. And so he grit his teeth every time he remembered it, his stomach clenching. The other knights, too, were waiting to see what would happen. 

So it was, late in a day of training, that a human servant approached the Captain, and she relayed that he had been summoned by the Prince of Sunlight. He felt his breath freeze in his lungs, fear gripping his heart. The knights around him stopped their training to look at him, quietly curious. Ornstein marched past all of them, as determined as he could. The human gestured quickly, hurrying him through doors and corridors without a word. They reached a hall, and the human stopped, turning to him with a serious expression on their face.

“Afore us is His Grace, I ask of thee to stand behind me as I announce thy presence, Sir Ornstein.”

He nodded, gritting his teeth and taking shaking breaths, and followed their small steps into a balcony.

“Your Grace, Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight, god of War, as per thine wishes, here is Sir Ornstein, the Silver Knight.” They bowed deeply, bending in half as they spoke.

And Ornstein was breathless. Not as he was days ago, ribs bruised and reeling from a strong hit. No, he was dazzled, mouth parted in awe. The sky was painted deep in tones of red and orange and gold, and the Prince stood by the railing, tall and… everything Ornstein had ever imagined a Lord would -  _ should  _ \- be. Majesty and nobility, imposing and beautiful. Details he had not noticed days past now hit him in full: the ashen shade of blonde hair, the strength of the hands resting on the railing, the proud line of his shoulders. And as he turned around, and their eyes once again met, all thoughts of what other Lords must look like, of the very world, became a background for the blue he saw. He felt as if he was at last seeing a true God, and his heart hammered its beats in his chest. A Lord like none other, in more than just title, worthy of faith. Ornstein’s stomach clenched once more, in both dread and admiration.

“Oh! Thou cam’st. I am glad.” His voice rang clear on the balcony. “Thou art dismissed, little one, I wish for privacy with this knight.”

“As thou command’st.” The human slipped away with not a noise beyond their voice.

The Prince turned his attention back to Ornstein, and under his gaze, the knight bowed as well, still stunned by the Divinity in front of him. “Thine wish was my command, Your Grace.”

The God smiled, a small thing highlighted in tones of orange. “I see. Thy faith is commendable.” He began. It was all rather misleading, if his intent was to punish. The confusion made the knight’s mind reel further. “I have seen thee on the battlefield, slaying a grounded dragon by thine own strength alone. Thou art a force to be admired, and I certainly do so.”

The Prince took a step towards Ornstein, looking him in the eye. “I have fought this war since my birth, yet I have known none who slayeth dragons with any sort of grace. There is no art to this fighting, no technique beyond hoping for the best.” His voice was imperious, resounding. “I wish to best this war, to discover this knowledge we still do not have. And it was for this purpose I summoned thee here, as thou art like none I’ve met before.”

The knight was baffled, lips parted and eyes a fraction wider in his confusion. The praise scattered his thoughts to the winds, leaving behind only the incredulity and euphoria. He couldn't speak, he could barely breathe.

“Sir Ornstein, brave Silver Knight, chosen by War, wouldst thou choose to serve me as mine own knight?” The Prince posed the question with an earnestness unbefitting of someone who could snap his fingers and demand anything he wanted. Or perhaps all the more fitting for it.

Ornstein blinked rapidly, trying to think clearly in the deluge of thoughts the Firstborn unleashed. His mind seemed to have lost him, yet in his heart sprung into life a fire, strong and resolute. It spread, through his chest and down his limbs, carrying with it a blaze of certainty. And for the first time in his life, all of his faith bowed before one thing.

“I, Sir Ornstein,” he said, dropping down on one knee, head bent forward, a fist on the floor. “swear upon my very soul to serve Your Grace, Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight, as thy knight, until the end of my days, or the day thou wishest me gone.”

There was a pause, a relieved sigh above him. “Then rise, my knight, of thy kind the most trusted. I am honored to accept thy service.” The Prince’s smile was wide when Ornstein stood once more. They were much closer than he expected - he could reach out and touch him, if he wanted. In both their faces, though one more impassive, was a dazed happiness, a contentment either of them rarely felt. “Now, my knight, return’st thou to thy duties. I shall inform the Lord, my father, of thy position. Come morrow, I shall call for thee again.”

“Of course. Thine wish is my command, Your Grace.” Ornstein bowed his head, hand on his chest.

As he turned to leave, still reeling from what had just transpired, the Prince called him once again. “Oh! And, if thou wouldst, my knight, call’st thou me Faraam. I take little delight from the name Gwynsen.”

Ornstein turned to his liege once more, the deep blue of the night sky now framing him. “As is thine wish, Your Grace, Prince Faraam, god of War.” He said, with a solemn nod.

The Firstborn smiled, and Ornstein curled his lips ever so slightly in what from him was the same. 

“Then I bide fare thee well, Sir Ornstein. Soon shall we meet again.”

**Author's Note:**

> ornstein is short and this is a headcanon you can pry from my cold, dead hands.


End file.
